


Leeches

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the gameofships porn battle on LiveJournal.  The prompts were Roose/Walda:  domesticity, leeches, ruffles and lace, pregnancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leeches

Her hands are always steady when she places the leeches, and gentle when she removes them. Roose’s strange habits do not trouble his little wife; she has learned in her short life to bear a pragmatic attitude towards the desires of those around her. It has both strengthened and preserved her, and she is glad of it. 

“Walda,” he says softly, and Walda smiles at her husband. “I have been bled enough.” And she pulls the creatures from his skin, without a trace of disgust on her open features, a mild expression on her round little face. She’s never flinched or shied away, not even when he’d first asked her to attend him. At first she’d been confused and wondered why Maester Uthor did not serve, but Walda had soon understood his reasoning. 

_It’s the only time when he’s vulnerable_ , she muses as she lays the pale pink creatures in the cask of water, taking care that their teeth do not catch on her fingers. The thought that Roose trusts her so flatters her, and better than that, it makes her feel wanted, useful. She’d been one among many at the Twins, and here, she is the lady of the house. And her lord needs her, wants her. It never ceases to make her smile.

As she wipes away the traces of blood on his skin, taking care again to be gentle, her warm hands brushing against her husband’s cool skin, she smiles again, a flush spreading on her face as their eyes meet.

“My lord,” Walda says softly after the maid, unable to hide the disgusted expression on her face, has taken the cask back to the Maester’s stores, “are you well?” She sits on the edge of the bed, her hand, now scrubbed clean, stroking his cheek. 

“Quite well,” he says, his voice a whisper in the stillness of their chambers. Walda unlaces the frilly wrapper that she wears, and underneath, she’s clad only in her shift, which is made to match, the cap sleeves a delicate lace, the rest a soft color the shade of roses. 

“Is there aught I can do for you, my love?” she says, her eyes half-closed, her hand straying from his cheek to his chest, where she caresses him soothingly, being sure that she does not brush against any of the wounds from the leeches. 

“There is one thing,” Roose says, placing a hand over hers, and the pressure, although slight, is enough for her to infer what those words betoken. So she climbs gingerly in the bed beside him, yielding with a contented sigh as her husband pulls her next to him, a proprietary hand resting on her belly, big with child, their heir, her babe, his son, or so she hopes. 

“I’m too far along for much, sweet husband,” Walda whispers, but her hands and mouth find their way in the dimly-lit room, and when she has done her wifely duty, she will think about the child to be, the way that her husband’s arms tighten around her, and the way that he looks at her, almost fiercely, a slight smile teasing the corners of his mouth.


End file.
